


All Sparks

by parsleylion



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Angst, Arson, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:03:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12302673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsleylion/pseuds/parsleylion
Summary: All sparks burn out in the end...





	All Sparks

**All Sparks**

  
  


"Just because he can sink a bottle of rum faster than you, is not a good enough reason for him to join the band."

  
  


You crack your knuckles and finish drinking your coffee, make like this doesn't hurt you or chip away yet another piece of your heart. Make like that and it'll all be okay.

  
  


"You have to admit," Mike starts, and you glance up with hope in your heart, "He is kinda cute," Mike laughs.

  
  


And your heart sinks because this is all a big joke to them, the rest of your band mates. A joke.

  
  


+

  
  


They don't have Chester join after all. The guy with the skinny frame and powerful voice and the scars on his wrists and bottle of Rum in his satchel is overlooked for Kenny instead. Because Kenny's fresh out of music school with a degree in reading music whilst taking a piss and grilling a sandwich with his free hand or some shit.

  
  


You drink your coffee, surrounded by flat-pack-easy-as-fuck-to-assemble-in-thirty-seconds-or-your-money-back boxes and piles of demo discs and stickers; shirts and posters.

  
  


Kenny and Mike sit in one corner of the stuffy basement, eating nachos and writing lyrics and Brad and Phoenix play tennis with an old guitar box and balled up scraps of paper.

  
  


No one asks where the fuck Joe is and no one asks if you're okay. Just as long as you drink your coffee and sit behind your drum kit and keep it the  _fuck_  quiet, then they like you.

  
  


+

  
  


You meet Chester again at the coffee house two weeks later. The one across from Mike's basement and Kenny strumming kumba-fucking-ya. You're just sprinkling your non-fat-double-shot-super-fucking-hot-latte with chocolate and earning a few glares because apparently sprinkles are reserved the fat guys with sweaty palms and too-tight business suits when you see him wiping down a table.

  
  


"For the record," You tell him as you place your drink down on said table, "They picked the wrong guy."

  
  


Chester glances up, pushing his glasses up with his index finger, clutching a bottle of sanitizer in the other hand. He blinks at you. Then smiles.

  
  


"Rob, hey."

  
  


"Hi."

  
  


From then on, that day will be known as the day you fell in love.

  
  


+

  
  


"You're seventeen years old, Robbie."

  
  


"And?"

  
  


"For that reason, you should be concentrating on studying. Not this  _band_. When was the last time you went to school, Rob?"

  
  


You zip up your jacket and sigh, "I'm fine, mom."

  
  


"I'm watching you, Rob."

  
  


She's not though, not really. Because by the time you've gotten down the driveway and are getting into Chester's car she's pushed you to the back of her mind and at the front of it is whoever's dick she's sucking this month.

  
  


"So, where do you want to go?" Chester asks you as you shut the passenger door.

  
  


You shrug, "Surprise me."

  
  


+

  
  


"I can get you in the band," You tell Chester one evening whilst lying on the floor in his bed sit, watching the screen on the portable TV. There's a crack down the middle so you only get half a picture. Half the news report.

  
  


"You can?" Chester frowns.

  
  


"Sure," You shrug, "Besides, Kenny's a tool."

  
  


+

  
  


You pour the rum into Kenny's beer and mix in the laxatives. You pass it to him when he comes into the small lobby, shutting the door on the already packed venue. Labels have sent representatives from all over to watch this showcase. You watch eagle eyed as Kenny downs his beer and grimaces, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

  
  


Mike and Phoenix come crashing through, followed by Joe and Brad. There's ten minutes of Mike trying to calm everyone down. Another ten of you staring at the clock whilst Kenny downs two more beers. And another five until it happens. And then there's Kenny looking flushed and sinking to the floor, doubling over and clutching his stomach.

  
  


You're not a total cock, so you look away when he starts spluttering and saying something about needing to go to the bathroom. And when he crashes out, and when it's got to five minutes that he's been gone for, Mike pales and says he'll go to see if he's okay.

  
  


"It's probably nerves," Joe says.

  
  


"Yeah, poor guy," Brad agrees.

  
  


"He'll be fine. We'll be fine," Phoenix adds, wringing his hands together.

  
  


"He's not okay."

  
  


That's Mike, and you glance up as he steps back into the lobby and glances around at the four of you, his eyes narrowly avoiding your stare.

  
  


"What?"

  
  


"He's throwing up and other stuff and," Mike wrinkles up his nose, "I think he's drunk."

  
  


"Great!" Brad throws his hands up in the air, "We get one alcoholic sorted out, only to attract another."

  
  


You don't react. It's best not to. And everyone else, well, they just look at Brad with wide eyes and then Brad bites his lip and looks like he's gonna apologise but you won't give him the satisfaction.

  
  


"Listen," You say, "I still have Chester's number. I can call him?"

  
  


+

  
  


Chester is amazing. Of course he is. So when Kenny doesn't show up to band rehearsal the next day and four label reps call up and say how  _amazing_  the band is and how  _amazing_  the singer is, Mike sighs, bites his lip and says "Okay Rob, just call him."

  
  


You go outside because that's where you told Chester to wait and you find him pacing up and down near a dumpster, cigarette hanging between his lips.

  
  


"You're in."

  
  


The way he hugs you makes you feel tall for the first time in your entire life. You feel like you could reach up and touch the stars or some crazy shit like that and Chester's hands slide around your waist, pulling you tight against him. You want to kiss him but you're not sure how he'd react. All you can do is smile, smile and feel your heart flutter because he fits so perfectly in your arms.

  
  


+

  
  


Everything moves so fast. One minute you're standing outside Mike's apartment with Chester in your arms, the next you're in some disused subway tunnel, sunk right underground with little air and lots of dust.

  
  


"Remind me again why we let Joe choose the location for this video?" Mike asks, coughing and crouching down on the floor.

  
  


Chester smiles at you from across the way and you smile back from behind your drum kit. Then you lose him to camera crew and the director telling him to stand to the right a little and you sink back into your seat, watching everything through a cloud of dust. Warner signed you a month ago. And now you're shooting a music video. You keep pinching your arms because any moment now, you're sure you're going to wake up. But all you've got are red marks on your arms and Brad looking at you wearily.

  
  


You find Chester again, leaning against the wall, watch him as Mike walks over to him and they begin to talk. You love how animated Chester gets when he's talking, when he's so enthusiastic about something. You love the fun he's brought to the band. You love how now your band mates actually talk to you again, because you saved the day, and you brought back Chester. Now you get invited places all over again. Now you get to go to the movies, to the parties and now no one stares at you if you have a drink, or leaves you in Mike's basement in the corner, behind your drums.

  
  


Then you watch some more, sure you couldn't smile any harder. Which is true really, because when Mike leans in and brushes his hand across Chester's cheek, and when Chester blushes and lowers his eyes and when Mike casually glances around before sliding his arm around Chester's waist, well, you're certainly not smiling.

  
  


They disappear. Both walking fast, fading further into the tunnel. You gulp, your heart beginning to race as your sweaty hands let your drumsticks slip to the floor.

  
  


"Right!" Someone calls, "We're gonna take a break. Back here in twenty minutes, my advice is go get some air..."

  
  


But you're not listening, already walking away from your drum kit and taking the direction Mike and Chester faded into because Chester's your special friend. Your close companion. He's your soul mate and yours. He's yours. You brought him here, into this group and you spent everyday with him, reading his lyrics or watching his broken TV; walking to Mike's apartment or driving back home with him. Jealousy washes over you because how Chester looked with Mike is how you look with Chester. And how Chester looked with Mike is not how you've ever seen him looking at you before.

  
  


You hear them kissing before you actually see them. Chester's got Mike pressed against a dirty wall. Got his hands pushed up Mike's shirt, exposing his flat stomach and his tan skin. And Chester's got his lips pressed to Mike's, his eyes shut and his hips locked tight with Mike's.

  
  


You turn away. A mixture of tears and dust blurring your vision.

  
  


You're so fucking angry right now.

  
  


+

  
  


Everyone feels sorry for you. Poor Robbie, an alcoholic at fifteen, lost his father at sixteen, living in a hostel with his mom at seventeen. And then he's not drank for seven months and he meets Chester and his band gets signed and everything is making its way back up again.

  
  


And then the fire happens. So, so terrible. Such a tragedy. And poor Robbie, has to come live in the hospital, the one for troubled teenagers. And he's lost his best friends. He's lost Chester. And he's lost Mike. And he's scarred. He's traumatised. He has nightmares because he was down there too. He was in that tunnel. And the fire, it just swept them away. They were too far down. They had no escape.

  
  


It makes you laugh. It makes you cry. It makes you stare up at the white ceiling and close your eyes as your mom places a fresh jug of flowers down beside you.

  
  


"He was doing so well," She tells a nurse, sniffing and sitting down in the chair beside your bed. It's the same every day. She only comes for the cable TV.

  
  


"He's in shock," The nurse tells her, just the way she does everyday, "He just needs you around him. You'll coax him out of it eventually."

  
  


"You think? It's been two months."

  
  


"He's lost his two best friends. He couldn't help them. It's going to be a struggle."

  
  


The nurse leaves the room and you open your eyes, watch your mom out the corner of them as she settles into the chair and opens the box of chocolates Brad left for you yesterday. You ignored him, too. Like he wanted to talk to you. He just wanted to ease his conscience and perhaps the nagging that his parents had been doing to get him to come see you, token crazy friend. Because every group of friends has to have one. The nutter. The alcoholic. The one who's not quite sure why he was even born. The one with the mom who eats his chocolates and turns on the TV and pretends she gives a shit, when really, she's just biding time until she has to go work on the street corners.

  
  


It's later on when you wake up to the sound of MTV and some suited guy staring solemnly at the camera. He's wearing thick rimmed glasses like he's trying to be cool. Your mom is sipping coffee, clutching a torn tissue between her fingers.

  
  


"We're about to get our first play of Linkin Park's One Step Closer."

  
  


She sobs.

  
  


"The video footage was salvaged from the fire that tore this band apart several weeks ago in pretty harrowing circumstances. The band, hailing from Southern California were on set in a disused subway tunnel recording this very video when electrical faults caused a fatal fire. The two singers of the band, Chester Bennington and Mike Shinoda were trapped and died later in hospital. The remaining members of the band escaped unharmed, along with camera crew. It's thought that the drummer, Rob Bourdon is residing in a local mental institution, but as this goes out, we have no more news on that."

  
  


"My poor Robbie."

  
  


You stare out of the window. The guy carries on.

  
  


"Warner Brothers were excited about this new band and in tribute to both Chester Bennington and Mike Shinoda, the remaining members of the band decided to allow this to be released. So here it is, One Step Closer, you saw it here first..."

  
  


"My poor baby."

  
  


You glance down at your hands. The ones that are covered in fading bruises, fading scars. The ones that opened the bottles of water and poured them over the plug sockets and electrical equipment; the leads into the cameras and monitors. The ones that grabbed handfuls of wires and twisted them around. The ones that flicked on the lighter from your pocket. The ones that threw it into the smoking mess of black plastic. The ones that calmly slid down your sides and folded together as you watched the whole tunnel go up in flames.

  
  


"Oh Robbie. It's such a beautiful song."

  
  


She leaves when it's finished, shuts off the TV and leaves a black box staring back at you. You sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed, reach to the nightstand and take the cup of coffee she was drinking. There's still some left and you raise the Styrofoam cup to your lips.

  
  


It's just how you like it. Just how you used to drink it back in Mike's basement, watching everyone from afar, safe behind your drum kit. Laced with Rum. It burns your throat, stings your eyes.

  
  


Just the way the fire burned Mike and Chester's throats; stung their eyes.

  
  


**END.**


End file.
